


No Rivers, No Lakes

by Nelly (phagocytosis)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Character Death, Developing Relationship, F/M, High Fantasy, M/M, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Violence, bad attempts at humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phagocytosis/pseuds/Nelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High Fantasy AU. Cobb, Mal, Arthur, Eames, and Yusuf are all part of the last remaining clan of demon hunters. Their ties to the brotherhood, and each other, are tested as they search for a cure to Mal's illness and try to save her mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her death comes slow, the same way winter does this far from the mountains.

In a way, Arthur guesses the entire clan has already had their chance to grieve - preparing for the inevitable might've well been their mantra, ever since joining their ranks orphaned and alone. Death isn't the new part; their numbers dwindle as demonic hoards claw ever closer to the fringes of the south forest, a frank and honest _inevitability_ that no longer reaches the ears of high courts across the land, convinced of individual fantasies. Demons are only built for old songs, the clans and brotherhoods of hunters an archaic hovel for misfits and criminals too restless for the city streets, if not banished outright. Every time a party goes out, they consider themselves lucky if only one silent body returns to grieve over, burn, and continue - as steady as the rivers that bide them time until demons, or the victims they make of the dead, become powerful enough to cross. 

Death, the funeral pyre, the makeshift epaulettes of various gems and beads they break down to string on the shoulders of relatives, loved ones - none of these things are new. But Arthur thinks it's a sudden and stark contrast to lose someone he loves to the slow reek of poison than someone he vaguely calls brother in the middle of a hunt. His place in the clan, from eight years of age to thirty, has always been one of a more satellite position - a bowscout, too thin to bear the shield but with true enough aim and fast enough feet to survive gambit after gambit. He could have earned a long string of epaulettes of his own, if he'd taken the time to bring back pieces of his kills - a prized talon, a fang - but he had never seen the point. There was never much glory in fighting back a slow infestation, never much camaraderie to find in the midst of men and women who chose to face horrors out of a sense of justice rather than fall into it with a sense of shame.

Arthur has no story to tell, no vengeance left in his bones but for hollow marrow of simply falling into place and not resisting the tide of a river sweeping him along. He was orphaned young, his anger left him to fight with the other children and his pride made him refuse to eat until, finally, escape came in the form of a young hunter named Jamal. To this day, Arthur isn't sure what Jamal saw in him enough for him to pay the matron for the debts of wasted time and offer him a life here, but his gratefulness makes him stay, among other things.

For a time, he'd still considered himself quite alone - but then there was her. He was only thirteen when she was brought in; she'd seemed very much the angel of a heaven long since abandoned the sad mess of human kind. Even when he'd grown up, he'd never quite come out of the idea completely. 

Mallorie.

Arthur loved her, but he could never get around to asking her to marry him in sincerity – he'd tried once, at fourteen. She'd smiled and kissed the tip of his nose and then his mouth, shyly chaste and sweet. Then she'd only laughed, pushing him into the lake and jumping in after him, playing as though she couldn't swim so that he was forced to rescue her.

Nobody could force her to be too serious; her favourite activity, after her training, would be to trail after one of the older boys – a grenadier, Eames – and badger him all afternoon for no reason at all other than, she later explained to Arthur slyly, to see if he would ever lose his temper. Eames never did, and Arthur thought she'd found her match in a man who couldn't find it within himself to be serious nor sincere – but she still didn't marry him, though he'd never asked.

Later, at eighteen, after the ceremony that rebirthed them as true hunters, a man with the wildest blue eyes Arthur had ever seen was brought to camp, stripped of his ragged clothes and forcefully washed at the stream. They watched Eames work at the locks of shackles that donned the man's wrists and ankles and, in a fit of fury, cut through the chains himself. It was the first time Arthur had seen him frown, and it wasn't in the death of a hunter or even at the hands of a medicus for a wound – but the imprisonment of a man. In the years that went by, Mallorie fell in love, and perhaps Arthur did a little bit too – but in the end it was this man, Dominick Cobb, that asked Mal to marry him, and Arthur to witness their vows, and in this, he found his place.

Not a husband, not a father, but loved as a friend and brother.

It's what makes watching her die sting the most.

These days, his life spins around him in slow circles – yet he remains unable to find his own footing. There's a low, quiet suspicion that maybe that in its entirety is what grief is like, but he hasn't been able to ask. Cobb carries a heavier weight than he can begin to imagine, and Eames is the last person he'd try to attempt serious conversation with, and Mallorie...

There's only a quiet hush to the air around her, aside from the rattles of her rib cage trying to hold in a hammering heart. 

 

The medicus's tent is always placed closest to the water, whether they're in the mountain ranges during the summer or in the southern fields to better brace the colder seasons. Arthur finds Cobb just at the edge of the bowed lake some time after sunset, the candle light from nearby tents slants of gold that cast a hollowness to his features. Some things are better seen in the dark, Arthur thinks, but doesn't comment on it – he's had to give up on trying to get the man to eat more, to rest with his children. Since Mal's illness, Cobb's had a single-mindedness to him with an intensity that strikes fear rather than inspiration, though it seems to drive those around him all the same.

Though to drive them away or toward the same purpose, it really depends on the person he sets his sights on. 

“Hey.” Arthur brings down the hood of his cloak, letting the chill bite at his cheeks and ears – it's something he can focus on, rather than the smell wafting from the tent. Sickness and infection, it's the sort of scent that belongs in the middle of a demonic enclave, not their own encampment. “I didn't see you at dinner.”

“I ate with the medicus,” Cobb lies, and though it's not a new habit of his, Arthur still finds himself surprised by how much more often it comes around – if it wasn't a lie, it was an evasion on its own.

“Good. How's she doing?”

“Eames should've been back with the most recent list of ingredients today.”

“It was a pretty hefty list. Medicus has had him running back and forth from the coast for weeks.”

“Jamal wants him back on the field after this run.”

Arthur shifts slightly on his feet, boots digging into the soft grass beneath them. “He's giving up?”

“Not in those exact words.” The tone to Cobb's voice is wry, but the strain is obvious. “He says he can't keep giving me men to ride like horses. At least he took the time to warn me that if Eames doesn't come back, there'll be no one left to vouch for why I shouldn't have been left to rot in prison.” 

Arthur's jaw tightens only briefly - he was the one to convince him to stay with Mal and his children in the first place. What kind of ruin would it be, to leave in an attempt to save the one you love, only to return to find her dead? Eames used to be the exception to Jamal's tally of front men, but Arthur knows the strain to the villages to the south is enough to warrant the harshness. The words aren't supposed to be personal; they all know grief, in their own ways, but they can't afford to dwell. The lifestyle of a hunter is never one to give a lot of room for love.

Their loyalties are supposed to be to the brotherhood's cause, not individuals.

“I could've gone,” Arthur says faintly, but Cobb shakes his head.

“No one knows the seaside country better than him. And you- you should be here.”

For a time, they're quiet. There's a fog rolling in over the still water, a heavy mist that sets Arthur's shoulders in a tense line, matching the tautness of the bow and quiver strung across his back. They always have to be ready for something, and Jamal – though respectful and patient until now – has called on him a few times to scout further to the east, strengthening their lines. Cobb's shield, however, for the past month has been collecting dust inside of his tent, nothing more than a hiding place for Phillipa and James – a toy, even, were they able to lift it. 

“She's been surviving this long on what the medicus has been giving her,” Cobb speaks up again – Arthur doesn't know if it's to him, or himself. “She'll get better – they have to give me _time_ , resources...”

“How many different combinations of plants can the medicus pump into her until something takes?”

He knows the words are wrong as soon as he speaks them – Cobb frowns, the shadows across his face as severe as ever. 

“Until it works.”

“If it's demonic in nature...” They've had this argument multiple times already – that the only way to truly cure an infection of demonic blood is to capture the same one, a statistical improbability. The clan stopped keeping dogs eras ago for tracking – they kept getting killed much more quickly than they could be replaced and retrained, and eventually human scouting replaced the idea of depending on too many animals. Even now, horses are a fading luxury; most of the time they have to travel on foot, keeping them for the caravans between seasons. The past generation, Arthur included, kept an animal here or there for more basic tasks, but even that's a dying practice – unable to spare rations to feed extra mouths, captured and eaten by the other animals (or more than animals) in the south forest; it seems, in a way, anyone who takes up the mantle is destined to be in some way isolated from the rest of the world.

Arthur keeps a messenger bird, but he hasn't had to send anything in a long while. “Look, I'm wasting my time here. I could find it-”

“You're a good scout, Arthur. I'd trust your eyes before anyone else's, here. But Mal – before the fever took, she said she'd landed a fatal wound. That enclave's known for cannibalism of its wounded.” The reality of it seems to pain Cobb, so Arthur quietens again. “Maybe a bunch of flowers and prayer is a slower solution than blood magic, but it's working. She was awake for an hour, today. She _smiled_...” There's something in his voice that wavers, but it relaxes, the smooth, easy manner of Cobb's speech returning. “It's working.”

Letting out a small breath that collects vapor in the cold, Arthur nods. “So, more time it is. When Eames gets back, I'll make him draw me some maps.”

Cobb gives a small chuff of amusement, but for once, chooses not to argue. “Just get to him before Jamal does.”

“You really think he'll report in to him first, instead of Yusuf?”

Cobb looks like he might shrug but, as if summoned, the medicus draws back the flap of the tent, letting some fresh air sweep out the sickness, the excess smoke from scented candles. Arthur's nose balks a bit at the mixture of vomit and lavender, but Yusuf looks as unperturbed as always, other than drawing his sleeves down to cover his browned arms from the chill.

“At this point, I'm more worried he'll not report in at all,” Yusuf chimes, scrubbing at his beard. His accent, like Eames', is thick from the sea. Old books tell stories where those born in seaside country are near drowned in the waves of their villages in some sort of ritual, forever warbling their voices – but Arthur thinks old myths have never been really broad in the extent of accepting different cultures. Asking Yusuf about his home has only ever led to conflated stories about pirates, and while Eames has shared with him some parts of that other life – how men weave shells into their hair and beards and married women cover themselves from head to toe – anything specific gets neatly maneuvered around.

But then, it's not like Arthur really talks about his life before he came here, either; he stopped getting frustrated a long time ago.

“Eames can take care of himself,” Cobb says, but Yusuf waves his hands.

“I don't doubt that, the man's got enough explosives strapped to his person to take out a small army. But the air in this place is starting to involve far too many politics for a group of people devoted to the mass extinction of a subhuman race.”

It's not really Jamal's fault, Arthur considers. The change in power was abrupt, the way death usually is around here – and the man's had to pull together the pieces of leadership in such a short amount of time. Objectively, Arthur knows that's the reason he's been coming down harder on their distraction; in reality, Jamal calling searching for Mal's cure a waste riles something under his skin.

There's a small moan from the tent, and Cobb brushes past them both to dip inside.

“You knew Eames when he was young,” Arthur mentions, Yusuf humming his assent. “Is he gonna abandon us?” He considers, shifting the words around a bit. “Her.”

“Cobb's known him nearly as long as I, in the cumulative nature of things,” the medicus says, “and he's confident that everyone else loves his wife as much as he.”

“So you're saying he's not coming back.”

“I'm saying the sea is a strong pull for any of us, but I'm also saying that you two know a very different Eames than me. And I might as well posit that Cobb is so madly in love that he takes personal offense if someone else's priorities don't quite line up with his own.” Yusuf's fingers make a small circle in the air as his eyes slide over to Arthur, though Arthur doesn't know what to make of the gesture. “Though that, I'm sure, you know already.”

“I don't think Eames cares who he offends,” Arthur mentions dryly.

“Generally speaking,” Yusuf agrees, “but Cobb's...” He pauses, seems to remember himself, and shakes his hands out. “It's too damn cold. How do you people do it?”

Arthur's brow raises. Yusuf's been with them for eight years, the seasons are hardly something new to him – and winters in the fields are way better than winters in the mountains. “Cobb what? What about them?”

It's something he's never really figured out – the dynamic between Dom Cobb and Henry Eames, what made the clan bring in a man otherwise destined to stay in prison within some faraway place, what made Eames fret over the locks until he looked something less of a man. It was a long time ago, but they'd seemed to know each other even before that. Past lovers? Arthur gazes at the medicus' tent and knows that Cobb has only the capacity to love one person with everything he has, one lifetime. But the extent at which Eames is helping him (them) against his own more jaded judgment, against Jamal and even Yusuf's dwindling energies – it doesn't make sense, not against the constantly evasive if refreshingly blunt way Eames carries himself, a paradox of personalities and beliefs within himself.

Besides, Yusuf is running away, back into the tent. He tosses it over his shoulder: “Come see her if you like. The damage to her body is mostly healed, it's just getting her lucid that's the trick.”

“It's not a trick.”

The voice, slow and tinged with sleep, makes a knot tighten at the base of his spine as Arthur tries not to sprint into the heavy warmth of the tent. Mal – with Cobb's help – is sitting on the edge of the cot, looking worse for wear, but _alive._ She smiles at him, the pink of her gums pale with illness, and with it Arthur can feel the same ropes of hope that Cobb was holding onto so tightly snag around his waist, his arms, his throat, where they squeeze.

Mal's eyes are glassy, but seem clear when they catch the light just right as she looks at him. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Arthur says, feels ridiculous, tries again, “hello. How're you feeling?”

But she's looking away again, toward Cobb at her side where she reaches up, sliding her fingers delicately along his jawline, up to the rounded shells of his ears. Mal places a small kiss to Cobb's cheek, murmuring something before she's resting her head on the broad of his shoulder. Almost as quickly as she seemed to wake up, she's drifting off again, wrapped up in the solidity of his embrace.

“That's what I mean,” Yusuf says quietly over the grinding sound of crushing a group of herbs in a small bowl, not looking up. He seems embarrassed. “The lucidity.”

“Is it the poison or the medicine?” Arthur questions, and maybe his voice is slightly sharper than intended, but Cobb's the one to answer, patient as he tucks Mal back into bed.

“Both.”

“The remedy helps keep her more sedated and calm,” Yusuf explains, “while another draws the poison back out from the wound. It's mostly gone, really – but it'll take longer to heal her mind. If the poison doesn't kill someone first, it's the nightmares that leave their worst mark.”

“So you know that she's having constant nightmares... but you're keeping her asleep?” Arthur looks between the both of them.

“That's the beauty of it,” Yusuf continues with a broad quirk of his mouth. “This particular bunching of herbs allows the mind to shut down, apart from the respiratory functions and those of the involuntary muscles, of course... complete sedation, no dreaming. It's what's allowed me to treat her other ill affects to vigorously.”

“How can you be sure whether or not she's dreaming?”

“Arthur,” Cobb murmurs, straightening from his seat at the edge of Mal's sick bed. “It's okay.”

“It's not the first time I've put something together like this,” Yusuf assures. “Eames has been plucking the ingredients for me from the seaside for a long time – though I've had to strengthen the dose considerably, for her. Not the normal amount I'd give any hunter on duty, of course.”

“Who wouldn't want to dream? Apart from situations like this, I mean.” It's more blatant curiousity than anything else, Arthur knows – he guesses he finds dreams the more interesting part of sleep, a sort of safe haven for his mind to expand and grow beyond the confines of this reality where nothing really waits for them except for the life they try to build before death comes, almost never by old age.

Yusuf seems a bit surprised by the question, hands stilling on the bowl as he looks at Arthur – he doesn't know if the look is more _incredulous_ or _considering_ , like no one's ever asked him that before. “Well, people who kill members of the demonic hoarde and subject themselves to nightly terrors, I suspect.”

Oh.

Right.

“What kind of dreams do you have, Arthur?” There's a glint to Yusuf's eye that suggests opportunity, and Arthur's distinctly uncomfortable with it.

“I'm gonna see if I can find Eames.”

“He should be close,” Cobb agrees, giving Arthur the exit he needs as he dips out into fresh air.

 

_Close_ ends up being a bit of an exaggeration. 

When Eames still hasn't returned by the morning, Arthur chooses to leave the encampment on a short patrol to look for any sign of him. He doesn't go far enough to require permission of leave – their dark tents are still well within sight, especially against the light accumulation of snow clinging to their surroundings from the steadily drifting flakes. It's always foggy before it snows on the plain, Arthur considers, though it usually never sticks long through the week, nothing like the mountain. When the afternoon sun hits, scattered and dull from the grey clouds overhead, the snowfall hasn't let up any – seems to worsen, in fact – and he returns to camp to change into his thicker white fatigues for sake of camouflage and warmth.

Exiting his tent, the near inch of hardening snow crunches underfoot. Cobb catches his eye by the main communal fire, a sudden lull in his conversation with Jamal. He can only figure it's him, the tattoos he can spot gleaming black against dark skin at the base of his skull that extend below the line of his clothes are indicator enough, if it weren't already for the slight twist in Cobb's mouth and the tension between them that Arthur can nearly taste in the back of his throat. Jamal half turns so that Arthur's eyes are no longer on his back, also questioning.

Arthur doesn't call it running away. He doesn't run, anyway. It's more like a pointed taking of his leave, because he's got nothing for them. He doesn't know how to cure Mal in a way that'll satisfy either of them, he doesn't know where Eames is that doesn't list 'gone' or 'dead' as viable options. But Arthur's pretty damn tired of staying idle, no matter what Cobb considers a better role of support and what Jamal thinks is a more productive use of his time – he can at the very least get his hands on Eames and drag him back to satisfy one person and whatever cargo he has for the other.

Tying his quiver at his hip, notching his bow to its holster at his back, Arthur makes a pit stop to the aviary. Before he regulated his old crow to carry messages only, she used to be a loud warning signal for carrion – especially walking carrion – but also circles around those familiar to her. The birdkeeper looks a little surprised to see him, but fetches him the key to her cage all the same.

“She's been rather quiet lately,” she comments as the bird hops onto Arthur's outstretched arm, then flaps onto his shoulder. “It'll be good for her to get some exercise.”

Arthur's not sure how to respond to that other than a mild “Thanks,” so there's that.

His second stop is at the makeshift stables. A few years ago, when the front shifted to defensive tactics rather than the raids, he donated his horse to the caravan reserve – so they're pretty surprised to see him too, when he comes around. It's like people _forgot_ he was point man for the fifth movement (and final, victorious in its cleansing, if only it hadn't required five attempts) against Alocer's enclave past the knot of the mountains, he thinks irritably – but then, he never did choose to collect on his own epaulettes. 

He was twenty-three. It seems so long ago.

At least the stable hand remembers _which_ horse it is – but considering there are only twenty-five left, it's a pretty statistically sound game of chance. The horse recognises him with a toss of her head, pressing her nose against his hands and pockets in search for food. He lets her pick her way through the leftover fruit Arthur'd saved as the stable boy tacks on the saddle. Arthur does the bridle himself when the horse is done eating, rubbing a bit at her soft white ears, the short hairs spotted a bit with age.

“We're hunting for assholes,” he murmurs to the horse gently, and she huffs but doesn't budge when he swings himself up into the saddle, collecting the reigns. His bird flaps a bit at being dislodged so suddenly, but finds perch again on the horn of the saddle, tilting her head before picking at the lining of his cloak like she'd rather prefer to nest instead. Arthur doesn't blame her. Things have gotten pretty docile as of late, as if none of them want to push themselves hard enough and risk lowering their numbers – maybe that's why Mal got herself hurt at all.

But no, maybe that's not fair to say. It's not her fault she'd nearly died, the carelessness had been bleeding through all of them, a numbness to reality – something Jamal is trying to shake them from. Their new leader is trying to rebuild a loyalty to a powerful idea, like hope, like good overcoming evil, like things Arthur rather misses believing in.

“What should I tell Jamal, sir?” the boy questions, scrubbing at the back of his head. Arthur holds back a grimace.

“That I'm babysitting for him,” he says, feels his throat twinge with an old humor before guiding his horse into a canter that drives them straight out of camp. Someone shouts his name – Cobb, he thinks – but he chooses not to look back.

As if remembering her original purpose, the crow's feathers ruffle, her chest puffs. Arthur inhales sharply, and she takes to the sky with a fluidity that his eyes stick to, tracking her movements against the grey of the clouds and then, as he makes for the tree line of the eastern border of the plains, through the canopy.

_Don't be dead,_ he snaps at the wind, blinks away the flakes of snow his lashes catch as he speeds into the forest, trusting his horse to know her footing.

If Eames can't hear him, well, that's his own fault.


	2. Chapter 2

The East forest consumes the most direct path to the seaside country. It takes about a thousand miles to cover the distance from the plains to the shore, a stretch Eames usually makes in a week and a half on horseback. The forest itself is relatively tame, considering the state of the south – plenty of rivers and small running streams cut through the East on their own way to the ocean, meaning that most supernatural activity is minimal at best to the occasional haunted grounds, as long as no cults are involved. It's the natural life that can get you here – bears in search for fish at the streams, the skunks that startle themselves all over your camp, the damn _pumas_ who get bored of chasing deer.

Arthur only allows his horse to slow as the roots of the trees become thicker underfoot, not willing to risk a lame horse over looking for Eames of all people. Avoiding barreling into a tree means he can commit to following the crow more directly and keep an eye out for signs of movement among the vegetation. So far, there's no threat larger than a family of brown bunnies that scatter out of sight and other signs of natural wildlife. It settles on his skin wrong, the lack of darkness he feels in this forest after so long spent in the South – a sense of hyperawareness for something that isn't even there. Nothing hisses, nothing rattles, the closest thing he's come across to a skeleton out of place is a barren tree among the evergreens, everything dusted with a thin layer of snow. The deeper into the forest he goes, though, the less the flakes seem to make it to the ground, until they finally stop entirely.

Arthur's eyes skirt the treeline, sitting straighter in the saddle when he can spot the edges of the crow's circling arc against the pinks and blues of a darkening sky. Before he can feel any sense of relief, though, her cries reach his ears above the natural croon of the wild birds here – warning him of the dead, and Eames. He brings his horse to a halt, swinging his legs off and dropping the short distance down, drawing out his strung brow and notching an arrow. Draping the reigns across a thin branch, enough to keep the horse in one place but her to get away if anything comes after her, he makes the rest of the way on foot. The crow's circling arc gives him a relatively small area to search – a downed tree ends up being his marker, making way for a small clearing.

The acrid smell of death wafts toward him in waves. Arthur brings up the loose half of his cowl to tuck around the lower portion of his face, around his nose and mouth. There's an occasional groan, the shuffle and heaving sound of some great push, a sigh and something hitting the ground.

He's too late; the only way to stop the undead is to sever their head.

Arthur steps out from the cover of the trees, bow raised – and Eames shouts, trying to scramble against the grass.

“Eames!”

“I'm not dead! Tell your bloody _vulture_ I'm still breathing!”

He isn't dead.

The thousand pound horse pinning the lower half of his body down and the bear a few feet away are. The dark horse is missing half its flank, and the animal's claws and mouth are bloody – but there's a bolt protruding through the bear's mouth and out the top of its head. Arthur approaches slowly, glancing up at the sky to his crow and raising his arm out. The bird sweeps down, finally coming to a rest on the crook of his elbow, climbing up to perch on his shoulder.

“You're late. And she's not a vulture,” Arthur says mildly, swallowing down the constriction of his throat. Eames sighs with an alarming heaviness, eyes closing.

“Don't laugh.” The sea tones of his voice are rough – dehydration, hunger. His otherwise full lips are cracked, faintly blue from the cold if not for the small droplet of blood dewing at the corner of his mouth. How long has he been stuck here?

“What?”

“The way I was going to die. I was near taken out by a _grizzly._ ”

“I've never seen a bear attack a horse before.”

“Maybe it got offended we drank from the stream.” It takes Arthur a moment to realise the vague wheezing sounds coming from Eames' chest is laughter, not fluid building in his lungs. “I can't feel my legs.”

“Okay,” Arthur says. At Eames' look – the grey of his eyes sharp despite the weakness he knows is there – he clears his throat. “Okay, hold on.”

“Don't-” But Eames' jaw clenches, swallowing. Arthur blinks at him, yet nothing else comes and Eames just closes his eyes again, folding his arms behind his head in wait. As calm as a summer night spent stargazing, but Arthur can see the measured breaths, the way he's grinding his teeth to keep them from chattering.

He's cold, he's hungry. He probably has to relieve himself, and he'll definitely need to bathe. That rotting smell never really leaves – Arthur's had it stick to a pair of boots for nearly a year and a half. He can only hope Eames is a little more lucky.

Arthur returns with his horse as quickly as he can. Immediately, her ears lie flat as soon as she catches sight and smell of the animal corpses, and he has to forcefully guide her forward, past the pile. He uses two lengths of rope to hook to the saddle and the dead mount's hind legs, hoping the carcass isn't soft enough to tear. Arthur taps his own horse's underbelly a few times, easing her in a slow walk forward, dragging the body off of Eames in a slow pull. There's a terrible popping sound, but Eames doesn't cry out and when Arthur looks over, he can see that the dead horse's legs have been pulled out of their sockets, but the muscles are still intact.

A few more pulls, and Eames is finally no longer pinned down. Arthur watches him finally be able to inhale in a way that was restricted by the weight before, only to grimace at the smell and turn his head. Untying the ropes, he loops them and hooks them in a neat circle back on the saddle before approaching. The grenadier is already in the process of sitting up, hands massaging the circulation back in his right leg with a tight look on his face.

“Anything broken?” Arthur asks, pulling out a canteen of water as he crouches in front of Eames, offering it to him. With all the movement, he can make out the small head of a ferret poking up out of the collar of Eames' cloak, nip him under the chin, and disappear again. Freddy the ferret – Arthur never could figure out why the man kept him around, other than Eames always trying to reassure him he's luckier than a rabbit's foot.

All things considered, Arthur's not too sure about that.

Eames takes the water with a murmur of thanks, popping off the top. Arthur can see the restraint of not being too greedy with it, taking small sips at a time. Wordlessly, he gets his hands on Eames' left leg, massaging the calf to bring blood back and search for any broken bones himself.

“Some bruised ribs, I think,” Eames says after he's finally had his fill of water, tucking the cap back on and swatting Arthur's hands away from his legs, going back to his own more vigorous massage. “It was a bit of a slow tumble, admittedly – but I was dealing with the bear.”

“Can you walk?”

“Feeling's coming back – real sharp and painful-like, but it's coming. Are you going to make me walk behind your horse?” There's a quick flash of Eames' crooked teeth, and Arthur looks skyward for some measure of help before straightening, tucking the water away. He offers Eames a hand, though, and it takes his full weight and a few grunts on Eames' part before they can get him standing, shaking out the pins and needles in his legs and feet as Arthur braces him against his side, holding Eames' arm across his shoulders with his hand steadying the man's back.

“I need to take a piss,” Eames grumbles after a few minutes, and Arthur pulls back a bit, watching the way his balance teeters, then corrects itself. Good.

Arthur breathes, rolls his shoulders to get rid of the weight that had seemed to crowd him in. “I'm not gonna hold your dick for you.”

“No, you'd enjoy that too much.”

“Walk to the bushes yourself.”

Eames does, albeit slowly, Arthur watching his gait along the way. Nothing looks broken, but he's favoring his middle still tenderly as he leans one arm against the bark of the tree, the other hand working the fastening of his pants open. At that, Arthur turns back to his horse, soothing her with a hand down the thick of her neck, gloved fingers digging lightly against the grain of her coat. Maggots are squirming around in the mouth of the bear, the remains of an eye on the dead mount, though shy of the cold – Eames has been stuck here for a little over a day or two, before the temperature drop in the plains reached this far into the forest.

After a few shakes, Eames is refastening his trousers, returning to his mount to collect the bags and rolls of fabric attached to his saddle, a makeshift sack of netting holding onto fist-sized rounds of metal and wax – and, inside them, explosive powder. He opens up one of the smaller satchels, bringing out a small apple to bite into as he addresses the rest of his things.

“She can't carry all of that,” Arthur mentions softly.

“I don't need all of it.” Eames hand lands on the broad shoulder of his horse, petting once, then twice more. “Poor boy. I should've led you to something a little more glorious than a crazed bear.”

Arthur helps him carry his things and secure them to his saddle while Eames finishes off his apple – the very act of chewing seems to tire him out. Freddy pokes his head out again from underneath his collar, sniffs dubiously at the fruit, deciding it's not near bloody enough to eat before disappearing again.

“You okay?” he questions when they're all done. Eames is counting through a few remaining small pouches that, when Arthur takes a glimpse, hold plant material. Yusuf's ingredients.

“I should be able to get up on the horse myself, darling, thank you.”

It's not what Arthur meant, but he just nods anyway.

 

Eames ends up needing a hand onto the saddle. Arthur licks his tongue over his own teeth to keep from smiling even under his shroud, because the strain on Eames' face isn't embarrassment – it's pain.

 

Arthur intends to ride through the night back to camp. The snow has stopped completely, the glimpses of the sky he can see through the trees are clear, dotted by a landscape of stars. But with the added weight of Eames at his back and his luggage slowing his horse down, and as hard as he'd ridden her to get here, they're considerably slowed. When Eames starts shivering so much he's nearly vibrating against him, and his head keeps dropping to smack his chin against Arthur's shoulder with repeated, faint apologies, he finally stops and breaks camp at the edge of the forest.

They're only a few hours away from the encampment, but if Eames passes out and falls off the back of his horse, there's no way Arthur can get him back on it by himself.

They get a fire going – more specifically, _Arthur_ gets a fire going, though Eames does provide the materials in which to start it, shaking too much to be of much use other than that. His crow finding a spot to rest in the trees above and the horse untacked for the night, Arthur unrolls a thick layer of bedding with a leather underside to drape across the ground so that Eames can sleep somewhere that won't get damp with the remaining snow. They split rations of dried and fresh fruit and make some tea with herbs Eames collected that – after a brief interrogation – promise to have none of the effects Yusuf regularly advertises. _Those are the stems,_ Eames urges, _these are the petals._ Arthur ends up giving in because the warmth is tantalizing, the drink is sweet, and because he supposes at the end of the day he does trust him.

Eames didn't abandon them, after all.

Hell, he would've been on schedule, even, if it weren't for the grizzly bear. 

In retrospect, Arthur thinks he wasn't too worried about Eames choosing not to come back with Yusuf's batch of flowers – but the tension among clan members has been so static lately that he'd been going stir crazy with doubt, grief maybe, other things. He doesn't think about it much, just leaves it at that.

They do know a different Eames than the medicus.

Arthur watches Eames' shaking subside slowly with food and warmth, but he boils the remaining water another canteen over the fire and puts it back in the bottle for Eames to tuck against his chest for additional heat. Eventually, the ferret winds itself out of Eames' clothes and darts its rat-like body out into the vegetation. Arthur moves to stop it – he's already lost his horse and some of his pride, he doubts Eames wants to lose his pet too – but Eames just waves a hand, looking undisturbed.

“He'll be back before we leave – he's quick about hunting his own game.”

Arthur nods, pulling back from the direction the ferret had gone and collecting his weapons to take watch. Eames needs rest, and Arthur isn't about to ask them to detail out shifts – thankfully, Eames doesn't look like he's about to suggest it anyway, making to lie down with his cloak serving as a blanket, a large satchel his pillow.

“Yusuf told me he can stop dreams with some of those flowers,” Arthur mentions while stringing his bow. Eames hums, graveled in his throat. “Is it true?”

“ _Somnacin_ – roughly translates into the dreamcatcher, in your language. You can do a lot with it, depending on what it's paired with.” Eames' eyes close, pulling his cloak over his shoulder. “Bring your dreams out into vivid hallucinations, or subdue them entirely. The latter is Yusuf's trade secret, not even I know it.”

“You ever try it?”

“Which one?”

“Either.”

“Yes.” His eyes are open again, looking over at him curiously. “You have dreams you're trying to get hide from, Arthur?”

Arthur brings up his hood and shroud, protecting his face from the cold. “No.”

“Then let me sleep.”

He does, padding out to begin a narrow patrol. The remaining conversation rests on the tip of his tongue.

_Do you?_

 

A few times during the night, he hears Eames groan. When he checks on him, he sees him toss and turn, hips twisting against the entanglement of his cloak. Occasionally he'll give a full body shudder, then quietens and stills entirely. Arthur waits around long enough to at least make sure he's still breathing before going back out to scan their surroundings.

The third time it happens, Arthur pulls off his heavier white overcloak and drapes it over him. The rest of the night, he doesn't hear anything else from him other than the steady rumbles of his snoring.

“What's in his head?” he mumbles to Freddy when the ferret wanders back into camp. The animal doesn't even look at him – instead it plops down by the fire to curl up and groom the dried blood from its paws and face.

“You better not've gone after those rabbits.”

Freddy ignores him. Eames continues snoring.

Figures.

 

Arthur watches the sun begin to rise – warmer than the day before, the snow already beginning to melt – before returning to camp. It was an uneventful night, other than chasing away a deer and her fawn so that they wouldn't bring predators with them. They're close enough to camp that it would've been a waste to use their meat for breakfast, and there's something about the idea of leaving the fawn to fend for itself and eventually die that rubs him wrong, so chasing seems like the better prospect; it doesn't take much, anyway, other than a wave of his hands and a clap.

Eames is already breaking down camp when he turns in, sweeping his boot to cover the fire with damp soil and slushy snow. The horse is already tacked up, their belongings hooked and rolled onto the saddle neatly, and draped over Eames' left arm is Arthur's cloak. He takes it back, sweeping the fabric back over his shoulders, grateful for the renewed warmth at his back as he fastens the latch at his throat.

“You weren't cold?” Eames quirks a brow at him. Arthur shrugs.

“You're always accusing me of being cold-blooded anyway.”

“Hence the need for warmth, yeah? Cold-blooded reptiles-”

Arthur gives him a flat look. “That's never the meaning you intend to begin with.” At least Eames looks like he's back to normal. His mouth is flushed pink instead of blue, his skin tan from his ventures out by the sea instead of the sickened pale green as Arthur had originally found him. “Ready to go?”

Said mouth tightens and widens in a close-lipped smile, handing him a hunk of hard bread with some dried fruit crushed and spread on it. Arthur eats, watching Eames get his foot on the stirrup of the saddle and swing himself up with ease.

“I'll drive,” he says with a relative cheeriness. At the sound of their voices, Arthur's crow descends from the canopy, landing on Eames' shoulder. He freezes, and Arthur tries not to laugh, has to bite at the inside of his cheek. “Arthur- did your bird just _shit_ on me?”

“Yeah,” Arthur huffs. “Sorry.”

He does, at least, help him wipe it off his clothing once he's situated behind him. The bird, as though realising her mistake, hops onto Arthur's shoulder afterward, talons digging into the padding there as Eames guides the horse away from the line of trees and toward the plain. Having nothing else comfortable to do with his arms, Arthur sets a hand lightly at Eames' waist for balance, the other braced on his own thigh.

“How is she faring?”

The day before, Eames had been too out of it for conversation during the ride. At least it'll keep Arthur from falling asleep, he considers, rubbing his right eye before answering. He doesn't have to guess about who Eames is asking after.

“She's fine, I guess. The fever looks like it's gone. Yusuf keeps her asleep with that Somnacin, though, so it's hard for me to gauge. He says she's doing better, and Cobb believes him.”

“You didn't know about it, before? The drug.”

“I thought it was the poison keeping her asleep.” Arthur's been doing this since he was eighteen, been in the clan since he was a child – but he feels like, at times, things around him happen faster than he's necessarily able to keep up with. He knows all the tricks of his individual trade, learns from what he experiences, knows enough about demonic lore and hierarchical structure to be able to write his own tomes, yet he guesses some of this information would've better been known by doing more eavesdropping on his small group of friends.

Or talk to more of his brothers and sisters.

“And otherwise? It's not uncommon for the brothers to order some from Yusuf. Why do you think I travel to the coast every few months?”

“I didn't think about it. I thought you might have family there, or something.” Arthur leaves a pause there pointedly, and Eames – to his surprise – shakes his head in the negative. “Anyway, it's not like I usually talk about my dreams with the others, least of all to the medicus. I don't know – they've never been bad. I don't have nightmares. And I don't think many people want to talk about their nightmares to begin with, right?” 

_You included,_ Arthur adds on, but it sounds too much like an accusation so he doesn't let it slip. What Eames chooses to reveal has always been his own business, not for anyone around him to force, even those closest to him like Yusuf, and Cobb apparently. He still wonders about that, considers whether or not he should ask Eames – how Cobb even made it into the brotherhood from prison, what had made Eames angry in a way he'd never seen that day.

“Really? What you hunt, the things you've seen, not to mention the war against Alocer – you don't dream of it?”

Eames guides the horse into a trot, and Arthur has to situate both hands at his waist now, fingers curling into the layers of Eames' travel clothes.

“No. I guess that's strange.”

“Strange and exceptionally lucky, I gather.”

Arthur doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't. For awhile they're quiet, and he figures with that particular branch of conversation ended, now might be a good time to bring up Cobb.

“What do you dream about instead?” Eames is interrupting before he even gets a chance to string a sentence together.

“Nothing specific.” Arthur could leave it at that, but he's never mentioned his dreams to anyone before, other than Mal. He'd been sick and she'd watched over him for the night when he was too stubborn to go to the medicus, and had asked him about his dreams when he woke up in the morning. He tells Eames the same that he'd told Mal in the past – he does sound genuinely interested, though Arthur can't fathom why. “Nothing that happens to me, anyway. My dreams- the way I experience them, they're always under my own control. I guess the best way to describe it is that I'm always exploring. Cities, different countrysides- some I've never been to, actually. If I concentrate hard enough, sometimes I can even build my own.”

“That's an interesting talent you've got there, Arthur.” He sounds actually _impressed_ , but Arthur knows it's just patronization.

“Pretty useless one, in the real world.”

“Not necessarily. It's beautiful to hear about, in any case.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says with a mild shrug. Eames doesn't push his horse faster than a trot for awhile, which Arthur is appreciative of – she's been more used to the slow travel of the caravan lately, not a rescue mission. After a little bit, uncertain whether or not to continue, he speaks up again. “You were dreaming last night.”

“Yes.”

“What about?”

There's a long enough pause that Arthur's sure that Eames is going to evade him again, until the line of the broad back in front of him changes, slouching. “I dream that I'm other people. Like you, I explore – but I don't have control of anyone or anything other than myself.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow at the back of Eames' head. “Why would you want to keep yourself from having dreams like that?”

“Because sometimes, the lives I inhabit in my dreams are better than our reality. Such a comparison every night can get exhausting.” Arthur frowns, lips parting as he starts to say _Sorry for asking,_ but in a burst Eames is adding, “They also tend to contain an inordinate amount of sex, so you understand how things can get awkward.”

Arthur thinks to the previous night, not sure whether or not Eames is using humor to cover up fear of if he's telling the truth, for once. “I can guess,” he comments. 

Eames just laughs, and Arthur ducks his head, huffing into the warmth of his shroud. They fall quiet again, and Arthur doesn't press for more – he doesn't know how weak Eames might feel still, underneath the bravado. Under his hands, the man's sides feel warm through his clothes, which is a better sign than the previous night, but Arthur's never had a good understanding of Eames' limits. They seem to vary and shift from day to day, especially back during the fifth war, a line of reason that appeared moody and temperamental. Generally, Eames can't be forced to do anything – everything he _does_ do is of his own choosing. Often enough times Arthur's wondered what it is Eames is even doing in a brotherhood – something that bleeds a requirement of self-sacrifice, asks them to protect the rest of humanity from the dark that some refuse to even believe them. The choice seems obvious, between a home in the seaside country and this.

Eames is middle aged, no family to speak of or is willing to speak of – Arthur wonders if, like himself, he simply has no other option than what he knows.

They've been trained to kill; it doesn't really translate into the best business practices to owning a shop by the sea or cultivating some plot of land into livelihood. They've been trained to kill and to distrust even the living who might bear host to specific kinds of demons and ghosts, they travel like nomads because no city nor village will hold them for long, they cling to the idea that protecting the human race even long after humans themselves have forgotten about the threat will earn them a more righteous place in the afterlife. Self-made martyrs throwing themselves into the hellfire and society tossing them their misfits and orphans like an afterthought – that's what it means, to be a hunter.

In the end, they've got nothing but each other.

 

It isn't until the encampment is well within sight that Eames says it.

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“Are you going to make me spell it out for you?”

“I don't know if you should thank me. I went looking because I'm the only one who doesn't have blind faith in you.”

“I've always been an enthusiast of your cynicism and distrust, darling. Now more than ever.”

Arthur shakes his head, watching the slouch on Eames' back straighten out as he sits up in the saddle. Looking up ahead over his shoulder, the sharp points of the tents curl something like dread in the pit of Arthur's stomach, unexplained and unwarranted. There's the sound of a blowhorn announcing their approach from the makeshift guardtower, and the crow by his ear startles, crying out once before taking to the sky. She flies with haste toward the camp, back to the aviary where Arthur figures she knows a real meal is ready for her, the birdkeeper more of a dutiful provider than he's been of late.

Jamal and a few other key members of the council are waiting as Eames slows the horse to a meandering walk, past the scouts who hold the border and directly to their makeshift welcome party. When Jamal assumed the role of leader, the tattoos on his neck were extended over his ears, along his temple to cover his shaved brows and along the hollow of his cheeks – representing eternal sight and accompanying wisdom, Arthur knows. But he just thinks it adds on the look of always seeming unimpressed.

Which, for Jamal, isn't altogether inaccurate. 

Using Eames as a brace, Arthur swings off the horse, landing on his feet neatly and collecting the reigns from the grenadier. Eames comes off from his perch with a more notable stiffness.

“Brother,” Jamal greets, “you're late.”

“People keep telling me that,” Eames muses, glancing at Arthur even as he approaches the council, clasping wrists with Jamal. It's only after Eames has brushed past him does he recognise there's an added weight at his waist of a few extra pouches added to his quiver, slipped neatly past the arrows as not to cut through them. 

“You smell, as well, if you'd like a comment more original. Did you lose your horse?” With Eames back, Jamal looks a little more at ease than he has been these last few days. As they begin to converse in seacountry tongue – in what he imagines to be inventive stories about Eames' grapple with a grizzly – Arthur quietly slips past the lot of them to immediately head toward Yusuf's tent. 

Yusuf looks a little pale, lips firmly planted around a long pipe when Arthur arrives. When he produces the small bags of cut flowers for him, though, he brightens up considerably.

“Can I see her?” Arthur tips his head toward the medicus' tent.

“I wouldn't suggest it,” Yusuf replies in a hurry, more a jumble of words than a true sentence as he quickly steps inside of it, flaps of the entryway flailing behind him.

He catches a glimpse of Mal, sitting still at the edge of her bed, staring back at him.

Her eyes are white.

The lengths of fabric cut off his view as Yusuf ties the tent closed altogether. 

 

It'd been a trick of the light, Arthur decides by the time he gets his horse back to the stables, carrying Eames' various bags, dismantled crossbow, and bedroll with him as he tries to remember where he'd set his tent, wondering when the Hell he'd gone from scout to mule. Luckily enough for him, the ferret had hidden itself into one of Eames' satchels this whole time, peaking its head out before jumping down the short distance onto the grass. Taking his chances, Arthur ends up following the scuttling animal, and Freddy leads him to one pitched somewhat apart from the rest. 

He's never been inside Eames' lodgings before.

Arthur's boots hit softness when he dips inside, and he looks down. Colourful rugs lie in layers on the floor of Eames' tent instead of the standard sheets to protect against the damp and cold, a fashion similar to Yusuf's tent than something strictly utilitarian as some of the other footmen. In the right corner by the entrance, Eames' various shoes and armored shin guards rest in a neat stack – Arthur shimmies out of his own to set there, not wanting to track mud and snow onto the ornamental ground. It seems disrespectful. The fibers of the rugs are soft on his bare feet, his toes curling automatically as he casts an eye around to see where to set Eames' things, squinting in the dark eased by the afternoon light slipping past the front lapels of the tent.

It's almost like he's got the whole world stocked in this place, Arthur thinks with some wonder, pulling down the hood and shroud of his cloak. Small statuettes and nick-knacks dot the makeshift shelves made out of Eames' various trunks; bright, silk-spun clothes Arthur's never seen him wear peeking out from the depths of one. There are maps strewn across the desk in the farthest part of the tent, where Arthur very carefully sets the netted bag of dormant explosives. On his left in Eames' sleeping arrangement, a thinly stuffed mattress padded with fur blankets and some of the gaudiest pillows Arthur's ever seen – orange and purple and tasseled. Arthur tosses the majority of Eames' satchels and bags on the bed, tucking the portable bedroll in the small space left underneath the cot itself, where the ferret also dives into, making strange clicking noises at him. Arthur draws his hand back and away from the general vicinity of his teeth.

He's done here, he shouldn't snoop – but it's Eames' fault. There's a pile of books resting on top of the trunk nearest the cot, and Arthur picks one up, flipping through them. The edges of the pages glimmer – gold-lined – and the book itself is heavy, mostly from the thick leather backing. It's written in a language Arthur doesn't recognise, but it has accompanying pictures and diagrams that he can get the general gist of it – old, mostly fanciful magic promising protection against the supernatural. A debunked myth that cost the lives of many, ages ago, popular mostly to traveling merchants looking to make easy money off of the fear of village people. It's a well-known fact in this community that possession can't be warded against with a drawing or symbol – it takes the constitution of will power and a soul not easily swayed by temptation.

It looks nice enough, though.

A clearing of the throat, and Arthur is shutting the book, half turning to see Eames at the entryway. In his hands, he's carrying two buckets full of water – he enters, dumping them into a small bathing tub across from the bed.

“Sorry,” Arthur's saying automatically, then, “I brought all your things back.”

“Not all, I hope.” When Arthur doesn't catch on, Eames clarifies, “The ingredients?”

Oh. “Gave them to Yusuf. Why didn't you bring them yourself?”

“I knew Jamal would keep me occupied for a little while. Was I wrong to make sure they got to her first?”

“No.” Arthur wonders at the feeling of secrecy, though, watching Eames light an oil lamp among the little statuettes of various figures. The light causes them to play shadows on the walls of the tent, and Arthur blinks once before seeing it – the same markings of the book in his hands stitched diligently into the inner lining of the tent itself.

Arthur waits. He's not sure what for – an explanation, a dismissal. But Eames is going about his business, setting raw bits of meat in a small bowl on the floor for his animal, adding a small pinch of something from a jar to his bath water that makes it smell lovely – like honeysuckle, neatly covering the leftover cold rot. Eames' civilian cloak comes off, brown and plain in comparison to the black and red of his grenadier adornments; it gets folded and left by the door, to burn or wash after Arthur isn't sure.

He should ask now, Arthur considers. What Eames' loyalties to Cobb are, where he's going to stand when Jamal finally asks him to stop spending his time and energy on running errands for Yusuf and go back to the front lines, the never-ending patrols along the Southbend River where the undead lurk and wait and fail to cross. Why Yusuf was convinced Eames wouldn't come back, what makes the man Yusuf knows so different than the one who'd dismantled Cobb's shackles. Arthur has a lot of questions that never bore much fruit to ask when they were younger, but now, when he still has Eames' favour and respect because, hey, he _did_ just save his damnable life.

“Hey,” he starts, but Eames has his back to him and is taking off his tunic, pulling it over his head. 

The light from the oil lamp glare onto his tattoos like armor gracing along the top of his back and shoulders – his front, too, Arthur knows. He knows Eames' body is donned with ink – most grenadiers do, to identify pieces of their body if one of their explosives goes off on them – and this isn't the first time he's seen them. From all their travels surrounding the fifth movement, the missions they were paired up on together, he's seen him stark naked; once, they both had to ditch their clothing and dive into the nearest supply of water to avoid getting burned by an acid trap.

This is different, though.

Eames' movements are slow, like a question even if he's still not facing him. There's a mottle bruise along his side that Arthur can hazard a guess stretches across his ribs from the fall, but his eyes move quickly from Eames' back, to the lamp, to the bed, to the entrance of the tent. Heat builds in his chest unnaturally, but when he swallows, it dives down to his belly and below.

His cock twitches, reminding him of his sorely forgotten sex drive – somewhat hard to pay attention to it when your daily activities near constantly involve rotting flesh or the malicious intent of demons. Eames unfastens his trousers, sliding out of them, all his clothing now a careless pile by his feet.

Arthur leaves the honeysuckle warmth of Eames' tent so fast he almost forgets his boots, and forgets he still has the leather-bound book tucked under an arm until he's hidden in the darkness of his own tent. It's like coming out from under water to breathe, a cold shock that leaves him exhausted. Still barefoot, feet and ankles now muddy and freezing, he drops the shoes he has in hand at the base of his bed and tosses the book by his sole pillow, flopping onto his lumpy hay mattress without bothering to shuck out of his overcloak and clothes. His bow and quiver, at least, manage to make it to the floor.

He's asleep almost instantly, the deprivation swiftly catching up to him with the type of sudden, comfortable embrace he faintly imagines Eames capable of.

Arthur's last thought before the safety of his dreams come is wondering if Eames laughed or was disappointed when he left.

 

Someone's jumping on his bed.

He's going to kill them.

James' laughter rings clear and true and a little wild with his youth, right into his ear as his small weight collapses directly onto Arthur's back. There are clumsy kisses being planted over the shell of his ear, his temple, his brow – definitely a child, with as wet as that small nose and mouth is.

“Wake up, Uncle Arthur. You'll sleep past dinner.” Phillipa's voice beckons, pushing at his shoulder. Obediently, Arthur rolls onto his side, James falling off his back with an exaggerated scream. There's a new weight on his bed as Phillipa climbs on, tucking herself against his chest. Ever since Mal fell sick, she's been talking a little strangely – practically monotone, absolutely withdrawn and quiet. At least she still talks, Arthur thinks when he finally opens his eyes, hand coming up to scrub the crud out of them. 

“Some of the soldiers came back. They're going to start the ceremony in an hour.” Phillipa puts a hand on his chest almost experimentally, thin fingers spread wide over his heart. Her blonde hair is braided very prettily, Arthur notes, reminding himself to tell her when he's more awake.

“Five more minutes,” Arthur grunts, willing his eyes not to completely shut again. James is trying to make a fort out of his overcloak and nearly choking him in the process, but he doesn't want to budge.

“You smell kind of bad,” Phillipa mentions, sounding sincerely apologetic. “What's this book?”

Wide awake, Arthur ushers them both out of his tent long enough to scrub a soapy rag over his body, rinse, and redress into something more appropriate for the ceremony. He lets his ornate epaulettes stay in their box, though, picking up his bow and quiver (counting all the arrows to make sure James didn't get away with one) and storing them properly. He's not sure what to do with Eames' book and just ends up putting it under his pillow before leaving his tent.

James puts his arms up to him – Arthur picks him up obligingly, settling the small boy on his hip and offering his free hand to Phillipa, who takes it wordlessly.

“Where's your dad?”

“With mom,” Phillipa replies with a small shrug. For a moment, Arthur's incredibly angry for these kids who seem to be losing both their parents at the same time, regardless of the upward path of Mal's disease. Cobb should be supporting them, too, he thinks, but feels guilty for knowing just how much the man really does love his children, just wants to help Yusuf with his wife as much as he can at the same time. 

“Your hair looks lovely.” 

Phillipa smiles up at him – Arthur can't help but smile as well, squeezing her hand.

“Eames did it for me.” Arthur hides a grimace. Thankfully, Phillipa doesn't seem to notice. “He bought me this ribbon too, from a woman who grows silkworms by the sea.” She points to the green strip of fabric woven into the braids.

“I want to grow worms!” James announces.

“No, we can't,” Phillipa chides, sighing, face overcome by a serious frown that reminds Arthur of her father. “It's too cold here.” At James' crestfallen look, she struggles to revise her statement. “Maybe Eames can take us to visit a farm.”

“That's a good idea,” Arthur throws in. James cheers up after that, deciding to regale them of stories of all the different worms he's dug up in his seasoned years as they make their way to the ceremony area.

The fire burns tall and bright, nearly three men high as it rages with ferocity, devouring the wood it's propped up with. The meal tables have been dragged from the kitchen area, stretched in long rows to provide seating for the entire clan. It's a wonder he managed to sleep through the ruckus, Arthur thinks, setting James down when he wiggles to be let go and keeping an eye on them both as they run to play with some of the other children. Arthur wishes he could join them in their blissful disregard for the ceremony apart from the food. Then again, he's not sure what the cooks might've been able to scramble up on such short notice.

He has a macabre vision of the very same deer he'd saved that morning being used as part of the feast, as good as the salted venison tastes. 

“Here he is,” Jamal calls from not far off. Definitely a better mood, Arthur considers, making his way toward him. At his right and left are some of the other council members, their numbers always tending to follow Jamal like a cloud – Montrose and Montrese, the tactical general and the arms overseer, not twins nor even remotely related.

“Arthur,” Montrose greets.

“Hello,” Montrese smiles gently, her features softening. “I didn't think you'd come, Arthur.”

“I heard some of the brothers returned.”

“Thirty-second regiment,” Jamal fills in. His eyes practically glitter with happiness and relief, something that seems at odds with the usual unimpressed line of his eyelids. “Eames found and saved, thanks to you, and our other brothers come to join us back from the stretches of Southbend – it's good, very good.”

“Good news?” Arthur ventures.

Montrese hesitates. “Well, not exactly.”

“They've been trying to ford the river with corpses,” Montrose says stiffly, scrubbing at his beard. “Thankfully, the current's too strong for that – but that's sweeping the dead bodies right down to Cullport. Inanimate, thankfully, due to the river, but it's a serious accumulation of disease.”

“The citizens of Cullport still choose to live down there?” Arthur's brows raise. 

Jamal shrugs. “It's not our position to instruct people to leave their homes, Arthur. Only to advise them of the danger, on top of their own experiences to assist them in their own judgment.” He looks at Arthur's face, smiling knowingly, teeth sharp. “I know – most people can't seem to shake the stupidity out of their systems when it comes to their own survival.”

“I didn't say that.” Arthur shrugs.

“As directly noted,” Montrese murmurs, smiling again. “How's that new bow? Does the string hold strong?”

“So far, thanks. Haven't gotten the chance to use it on any real game, though,” Arthur admits. He tries not to stay bitter that the new weapon had only been complete after the skirmish in which Mal got hurt – if he'd had it before... “Getting to Eames was pretty easy.”

“Aside from the bear,” Jamal hums.

“Well, yeah – I came after that part. By a day or two.”

“It's still strange to hear about a bear attack in the East,” Montrose grunts. “They're sleepy, this time of year.”

“Eames suspects cult activity.” Jamal tips his head a bit in thought. “We'll look into it, but he might've just walked into its territory.”

Arthur finds his exit as the three of them begin to converse among themselves, excusing himself to find a place at the table to wait. More people arrive, including the heralded footmen – and James and Phillipa eventually find him to take seats on the bench on either side of him. Dinner is served first, because Jamal has his priorities straight; it's a relatively conservative feast for sake of short notice and keeping enough supply through winter. There's plenty of bread that he softens in milk for James to eat, fruit, potatoes, even some meat that does end up being deer, which Arthur chooses to opt out on. Of course, there's also a lot of wine involved, but Arthur pushes that out of reach of the kids, instead plying them with warm milk and water that had been boiled, then cooled, safe to drink.

After dinner, there's a long lull period as they prepare the footmen and the various gems to pin them to their epaulettes for their kills, before the actual ceremony start. But James looks like he's going to hit his head on the table every time his eyes close and his head drops out of sleepiness, and Phillipa seems bored out of her mind. The pinning ceremony of hunters gaining their ranks is something they've already seen countless times, and the speech almost never changes, so Arthur takes pities on them both, picking James up and tapping Phillipa's shoulder to guide them back toward the main part of camp.

“Can we sleep with you tonight?” Phillipa questions, somewhat guarded. Arthur thinks of the book he still has under his pillow, and has to shake his head.

“I'm not going to bed right away – I don't want to leave you two in there alone, especially if your dad's looking for you.”

“He's not.” Phillipa doesn't argue, though, and Arthur doesn't know what to say – or rather _how_ to tell her that her dad hasn't forgotten about her, still loves her and her brother unconditionally, is just trying to be a good father and a good husband all at once.

But he's never really been all that great with words, so takes them to Cobb's tent, helping them get ready for bed and tucking them into the smaller of the two cots.

“You can sleep over tomorrow night, if I'm not patrolling,” Arthur promises her, quiet as to not wake James up where he's already fallen asleep, little mouth open with his peaceful breathing. Phillipa toys with the ends of her braided hair, touching the soft green ribbon twined with the strands.

“Okay,” she says simply, looks away from Arthur as she turns onto her side in the bed, wrapping her arms loosely around her little brother and staring across the room, the empty cot and her father's shield.

Arthur kisses her forehead, but sticks around until both of the kids are deep asleep before leaving.

 

He grabs the book before trekking across the camp to Eames' tent. To his dismay, the man's apparently waiting for him at the front of it – he apparently chose not to stick around for the ceremony either, dressed plainly in trousers and a tunic, thick black cloak around his shoulders with fur at the fringes his only give away for being cold. Eames always looks like he belongs in the summer, Arthur thinks. Looks like the summer, now smells faintly of honeysuckle (much better than the remains of dead animal) with eyes like a stormy sea.

Arthur hates him.

“I was wondering,” Eames starts, but Arthur just holds up the book.

“I kind of stole this.”

“ _Kind of_.”

Arthur would say, _I'm sorry, I panicked,_ but then that would have to explain what he panicked _over_ , so he shrugs. “Why do you keep it? It's outdated by a few thousand years. I'm surprised you know how to read it.”

“I'm full of surprises today,” Eames says, mouth curling upward. He's shaved since the last time Arthur saw him, but there's still a faint shadow of renewed stubble on his cheeks. Arthur's about to say _I hate surprises_ , but Eames is continuing. “I have honey wine, from the ceremony. I _kind of_ stole it.”

Arthur pauses. He thinks of Mal and her sickness, her slow path to promised recovery by Yusuf and Cobb, the whiteness he thought he saw take over her eyes. He thinks of Cobb and his single-mindedness and his children, who just want their mother and father back. He thinks of Phillipa and how withdrawn she's getting, how it reminds him too painfully of himself. He thinks of how it's been entirely too long since he last killed something, and how messed up that is – to feel like he needs to slaughter something otherworldly to be at ease again. Arthur thinks of Eames, and what he's offering whether in exchange for saving his life or whatever other motivation drives him to undress in front of him and share his wine even after Arthur literally ran away at the sight of his naked body.

He thinks of how badly he could use a drink.

He says, “Yeah, sure. I guess I'm into uncommitted thievery.”

Eames opens the tent wider for him, and Arthur goes inside.

 

It's incredibly good wine.

Arthur gets blissfully drunk enough that the wards stitched into Eames' tent swim. Eames gets naked, and Arthur doesn't run away, but he's fumbling and so clumsy that they can't do much else other than take Arthur's overcloak off at first. Then Arthur's balance goes as funny as the rest of his mind from the wine, so Eames helps him lay down on all the deliciously soft furs, spread-eagle on his stomach while Eames pets the back of his neck for a little while, far too patient. They wait for Arthur to sober up a little, and it comes slowly, his embarrassment apparently as much as an impediment as alcohol inebriation.

Arthur's head clears enough to come back to functionally tipsy, at least, and he spends a few overly-focused minutes stroking at Eames' half-hard cock until it swells fully. He finds himself entranced by the fact that when he rubs his dry thumb over the red head of Eames' dick, the man's hips wiggle, like he's not sure whether to move away from the slight source of pain or if he enjoys it. Eventually, though, Eames brings out a small jar of oil – of what original use Arthur doesn't have any clarity left to know, he's just glad it's not the same grease be uses on the rig of his crossbow because then he'd never be able to look at him straight ever again – and smears it on Arthur's hand and fingers, bringing it back to his full erection. Eames seems to derive as much pleasure from watching Arthur play with his dick as the touch itself, which Arthur wants to punch him for, but Eames is thick and heavy in his hand and it's distracting. 

And also, he's kind of drunk.

Eames rolls onto his back, knees bent and slightly spread as Arthur shifts around to be at his side, hand still steadily caressing his shaft before venturing further to palm at his balls. Eames' hips wiggle again, but tilt into it, while at the same time his hands go to Arthur's ceremonial dress and start working at all the fastenings and buttons. There's a low grunt of frustration when Eames gets stuck on the infamous (in Arthur's opinion, he's had the thing redone two times but it still snags) sixth button, and Arthur's dick twitches to a full salute, straining in his pants.

Arthur has to stop touching him to help with his clothes before Eames rips something. They manage to get the entire garb off without a sacrificial stitch before Eames is getting under the covers, holding them back long enough for Arthur to join him and escape the creeping chill of the evening. Fur blankets are a good idea, Arthur decides, thinking that Eames' body may be a fraction _too_ warm, but succumbs to it all the same. He lets Eames roll on top of him, their legs tangling and Arthur angling their hips together just right so that their cocks can align, sliding lightly against one another in a way that makes him sigh in relief.

It's been so _long_ , and his body is eager to remind him, hands finally settling and finding a place along Eames' sides as they rock together. He remembers the bruising there a fraction too late when Eames jerks and flinches as he presses too hard against his ribs, pulling his hand back apologetically – but the other man laughs a little, a vibration that seems to pass from his chest directly into Arthur, taking his hand and kissing the palm before putting it on his tattooed shoulder instead. The residual kiss in the center of his palm seems cool in comparison to everything else, Arthur thinks wildly, then Eames shifts the angle and _drags_ himself against Arthur's cock and he stops thinking entirely.

For a few minutes.

In here, there's no demons. No Mal. No Cobb. No kids. No Jamal. No war. No facing the reality of the inevitable eating away at their clan by forces they never really had much control over – Hell and the afterlife that waits for all of them. They could be anywhere, any place in time. Under the furs and Eames, it's hot enough to be by the sea if Arthur wanted, though he doesn't really know what he wants, not yet.

He forgot to warn Eames that Phillipa might ask him to take her and her brother to see a silkworm farm. Arthur's afraid Eames might actually take them up on that, take them away in his usual ruthlessly reckless behavior, and then there's another bear, but it's no longer the horse crushing Eames, it's Phillipa and James missing pieces of themselves to the animal's unnatural hunger.

Eames' slick fingers (when did that happen) brush his hole and Arthur stiffens, eyes snapping open.

“I think I lost you for a moment,” Eames pants against his cheek. “No good?”

“Uh,” Arthur says, and potentially Eames misinterprets because he's moving the fingers away, rolling them over with a neat lift of his arm around Arthur's waist and resettles them. For all the half-drunken, half-lust filled dead weight Arthur is, he's vaguely impressed. Like this, Arthur's secured between Eames' thighs, and he thrusts blindly for a minute, rutting like a younger man along the crease of where Eames' thigh meets his hip, the soft triangle of hair there.

“There we go,” Eames murmurs, smiles up at him. Dimly, Arthur is ashamed at himself that he hasn't tried to kiss that perfect mouth. “Hello again, darling.”

“You speak too clearly for the middle of sex,” Arthur grunts and leans down, hands bracing on either side of Eames' head. Eames laughs at him, obliges by kissing the corner of his mouth like they're not doing what they're doing with their hips, but Arthur doesn't push it.

He understands what this is – at least, he thinks he does. He tucks his face into Eames' neck, breathing in the sweat and _ridiculous_ honeysuckle – Eames' fingers are massaging his neck again, working out the odd tension there even if the rest of him feels pretty fluid. He feels Eames' other hand slip between them, bracing for it to wrap around his cock, stroke him a few times, and that's it – he can feel it – that'll be the end. But it only teases him once before moving past both their erections, down between Eames' own legs. Arthur pushes himself up a bit, careful not to press his torso too tightly against Eames' for sake of his ribs, watching a concentrated look pass over his face.

Arthur glances down between them, where Eames' fingers are working _himself_ open, and is immediately struck dumb. He's also rather flattered. But his surprised stillness is catching Eames off-guard again and that hand stops moving, Eames shifting uncomfortably underneath him.

“Seriously, Arthur?”

“No – I mean – yeah, this is okay. The other way would've been okay too, but, you know – no preference here.”

“I don't think you're aware of your own preferences,” Eames says, smoothing his tongue over his teeth. Unsure of whatever limits might be unspoken here, Arthur leans forward, sinking his own teeth into Eames' bottom lip, who hums in consideration, tongue flicking out against him like a snake.

Arthur releases his mouth with a kiss to that full lower lip. Eames doesn't fight him.“I'm thirty years of age, I know what I like.” 

“Then you're sincerely the worst person I've bedded in terms of communicating them.”

“You got me drunk.”

“In hopes of _calming_ you. I tried to do this sober – and you ran away.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“No, you said you were sorry over _kind of_ stealing my book.”

“Look – I've had a rough month, okay?”

Eames considers this. Arthur trusts him enough to not have to explain – there's only been one incident within the past month to put them all on edge. Then Eames relents a little bit, though _relenting_ means he grabs Arthur's cock, slicks him with oil, lines him up with his entrance, and uses his knees tight at Arthur's bony hips and Arthur's own common sense to do the rest.

Arthur's brain catches up midway through, breath hitching, something leaping into his throat, then rests his head on Eames' shoulder and commits to it, thrusting the rest of the way in. He relishes the strangled sound coming out of Eames' mouth, doesn't think he'll ever hear anything like that from him again after this, so seals it to memory as he tries to deal with the sudden, full warmth sheathed around his cock. This is hardly Arthur's first time, but it's definitely his first time while inebriated, and he swears never to do it again – he doesn't think he's ever been this useless in bed before, and he's embarrassed by it.

But it's okay. Eames has it under control, and Arthur ends up letting him have it; he untucks his knees from against Arthur's sides, planing his feet on the mattress as he rolls his hips up until it finally spurs Arthur into action. He keeps one hand propping himself up over Eames, the other settling on Eames' thigh as Arthur starts up a rhythm – he fucks him strangely slow, but it may be the wine that brings everything down, easy and warm as Arthur slides himself back and forth into that tight heat. Absently miserable, he hopes Eames is enjoying himself, but Eames is at least moaning in quiet encouragement, hands both now grappling at Arthur's ass.

Neither of them are expecting Arthur to last very long. Eames' tattoos swirl and knot in his vision as his panting picks up, rhythm jolting itself as his hips snap forward a few times. He's about to pull out entirely to release somewhere a little less degrading to Eames who's being so patient and pleasant to share a bed with, thinking no one really enjoys being released into and having to clean afterward – but Eames' fingers dig into his ass, pulling him in _all the way_ and keeping him flush. Arthur gasps, struggles to warn him, but in the end just lets out a shuddered breath as he releases in long spurts, grinding himself in deep as Eames' finger teases his hole, slipping in to the first knuckle. He jumps a little at the intrusion, but relaxes into it easily, the haze of the wine and his orgasm leaving him tired. The fever-pitched heat of before settles to something more tolerable, comfortable..

Eames still hasn't released, though – but he's moving his hips in such a way that Arthur slips out, and then he's moving out from under him entirely and pushing Arthur to lie on his stomach. Arthur's about to complain about getting manhandled everywhere, but Eames gets on top of him presses his hard sex along the line of his ass, rubbing himself along the crease.

Arthur's worn out and too tired to have a second orgasm, he thinks, but he's at least limber enough to do whatever Eames wants to him right now – but Eames doesn't do much more other than thrust against his butt and the dip of his lower back. He pushes back into it a little, because as stupid as he feels about the entire situation, he's not about to just lie there like a piece of furniture. Arthur listens to the way Eames' breathing changes, the raggedness of his well-contained groans behind his teeth, feels the way his hips move from measured slides to a rough press, how his cock seems to get even harder before it jumps and twitches, warm evidence of Eames' orgasm collecting across Arthur's back, mingling with sweat to pool at his lower back.

After a few moments to catch his breath, Eames wipes haphazardly at it with the edge of a blanket before easing down to rest on the cot to Arthur's left. The bed is large enough to fit the both of them comfortably but still require their sides to be pressed together, a point of contact Arthur chooses to focus on.

“Thanks,” Arthur mumbles, face tucked into the garish pillows.

“You're very welcome.”

“You didn't have to sleep with me for it, though. I've saved your life plenty of times before and you never whored yourself out to me before.”

Eames tenses, and Arthur internally grimaces at his loose tongue from the wine, wondering if he said something terribly wrong. What a way to be grateful to someone, he's amazed at himself.

“That's not why I-” Eames starts, stops. Arthur mourns but can't even lift his head at the moment. “Go to sleep, Sir Arthur.”

As if commanded, Arthur does.

He spends his dreams looking for Eames and catching glimpses of him, but is never quite able to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fret not, Arthur will get his chance to bottom in future chapters.
> 
> This chapter was largely unbeta'd, so sorry for any mistakes.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur wakes up a few times during the night, short bursts that startle him from his dreams. The first time, he's still a little drunk and his mind feels like it's swimming. It's vaguely euphoric – but then Eames is climbing over him to get out of the cot. He moves with an unnatural quiet for a man of his size, Arthur thinks, pulls the fur covers tighter around his naked body against the cold. Were he sober, he'd have been gone long – now he doesn't want to even reach for his clothes. Instead, eyelids drooping as sleep threatens to take him over again, he watches Eames tend to a small wooden box of herbs, preparing a drink for himself. 

Arthur fades in and out of awareness, but he catches a few things: Eames knocking back an entire cup of tea with a grimace, then the oil lamp, golden light licking and playing at the tattooed lines of his skin and the unblemished broadness of his torso, before he reaches over to turn it down.

The second time he rouses, it's with far more clarity, but it's only because Eames is snoring in his ear – it's dark in the tent, and the sounds of the nightguard patrolling the camp are more dampened here compared to where Arthur's is pitched. He doesn't do much more than jab his elbow into Eames' chest until the other man snorts, rolls over onto his other side, and stops rumbling.

The third time, there's a woman standing in the corner of the tent. It's cold, it's so _cold_ , and Arthur's bones feel frozen in place, can't even reach for a weapon. She's sopping wet, hair tangled and sticking to her face, but her eyes are wide and staring – no, white and unseeing.

Mal.

She opens her mouth, and Arthur knows she's going to say his name, but only river water comes pouring out. It floods the tent, the rugs on the floor draining of colour and bleeding dark purples and reds into the collecting lake until he's suddenly sinking in it, he can't move himself to the surface to breathe. Mal swims toward him, her long and pale fingers more skeletal and foreign than a near-forgotten comfort as they reach for him, framing his face. Her lips part again, then draw back revealing a sharpened row of teeth – but a heat flares at his back, and arms wrap tightly around him to pull him away.

Arthur jerks awake, sitting up in the cot – he needs air, he can't remember how to breathe. Throwing the furs off of him, the cold makes his skin prickle and tighten in little bumps as he swings his legs over to the side of the bed, shoving his fingers through his hair.

A nightmare, Arthur knows – the rug his toes dig into is completely dry and even warm compared to the air. In that moment, he'd completely forgotten how to control the very basics of his dreams, he'd been _afraid._ Attributing it to stress and the drinking, Arthur glances over his shoulder to the still very _alive_ body behind him.

Eames is awake, the grey of his eyes turned vaguely blue with the starts of morning light inching in from the gaps at the base of the entrance of the tent, staring at him. It's a calm look for all that Arthur nearly leapt out of bed, and he tries to tune the pounding of his head and heart to it – he breathes haltingly at first, then sighs, rolling his shoulders. _Get it together._

“What happens when you die in your dream?” he mumbles, not really to Eames, mostly to verify that he has control over himself again, fingers flexing on his thighs. He'd never been paralyzed like that before – by a dream, by fear, anything. Even his first encounter with the undead had come with ease, it wasn't until later, alone and secure, that the nausea came.

Eames is quiet, looking away from Arthur entirely as he sits up himself. Arthur sets about collecting his clothes, seeking out the renewed warmth of the trousers and socks especially.

“You wake up,” he says simply. “Congratulations on your first nightmare, darling.”

It's not his first; he may never dream about his kills, but being an orphan left plenty of room for being afraid of the dark. In this way, Arthur prefers the path his life has settled into – monsters have always been ugly as sin, but they're easier. The job has always been easier than the very people they're trying to protect. But to explain requires a lot of words that Arthur doesn't want to waste for a flippant comment, so he shoots Eames a look that he hopes is somewhere near expressing his annoyance and not the aftereffects of the drinking or, even worse, the remnants of fear.

The camp is always busy with sound, particularly early in the morning. But as Arthur buttons his ceremonial uniform back up, he hears again the same shift in the usual rhythm of the encampment that might have awoken him in the first place. Shouting, which alone wouldn't be uncommon, but there's an escalating sense of panic to it and, underneath it, the crying of a child. He doesn't have to look at Eames to know that he hears it – he can hear him pulling on his clothes as Arthur shoves his feet into his boots and throws open the flaps of the tent to step into the cold.

Behind him, the snaps and clicks of Eames' crossbow being assembled sends something definitive into his spine – but the crowds aren't gathered by the watch towers, there's no impending signs of attack. Arthur follows the growing trail of people to the edge of the lake, shouldering past his brothers and sisters.

“He _killed_ her-”

“He'll bring an entire army of evil down upon us for his sins!”

Dominick's knees are muddied and sinking into the soft soil. His toes are still half embedded into the shallows of the lake, the rest of him soaked through. His arms tremble, tightening and relaxing periodically around the body in his possession.

He might shout, but it's lost with all the others. There's a punch to his gut, but he recognizes it immediately as Phillipa's small form, instinctively holding onto her as she sobs.

The face of the woman in Cobb's arms is turned into his chest, but Arthur doesn't have to see it to know. 

The crowd parts – Jamal and a few armed men of the nightwatch move through, but Eames is faster, moving to stand in front of Cobb and Mal entirely. The large crossbow is tipped casually on one shoulder, and the set of Eames' mouth is amused, tight-lipped and curled.

“I allowed you to bring a criminal into our clan, Eames,” Jamal begins. One of his men goes to draw his weapon, but Jamal steadies him with a hand.

“And you were the one to coronate him as your own shieldsman.”

“The terms of the agreement allowed for one chance to redeem his sins.”

Eames steps to one side, waving an arm down toward Cobb – who doesn't flinch, nor look up from Mallorie's pale face. “Has he not proven himself? Has his shield not protected us during the war?”

“You wish to pit the continued lives of many against the forceful taking of one.” Jamal speaks sharply, were in not for the plea that lingers there. “An argument we can address during trial – that much I can at least promise.”

“Trials never gave me much hope, whether in the city or here.” Eames tilts his head to the left, then the right. “Send a man to prison for the circumstances life thrusts onto us and, now, seek to add more punishment when he's already lost his world.”

“By his own hand!” Someone shouts from the crowd of people, spurring on an equal chorus of agreement and disagreement alike. Phillipa clutches at him more tightly, and Arthur smooths his palm over the loosened braids and fingers the silken ribbon still entwined.

He can hear his crow calling from the aviary – she's dead, she's dead. 

“It's only an arrest.” Jamal releases the guard's arm, allowing them to draw their weapons as they approach. Cobb's arms tighten around his wife, crushing her limp body against his as he finally looks up.

He looks broken.

Arthur catches his eye, then, and though his mind has gone curiously blank with only a buzzing numbness left behind, he knows what he has to do. He can't let them take Mal away from Dom. He can't let them touch Mal – lovely, beautiful, funny, intelligent, deadly, mothering, sick, _dead_ Mallorie. It's as though he moves on instinct; he can't predict the movements of his own body, like his mind's eye has simply closed and allows something more basic to take over, as though it's war and he has no more time to think.

He's gently pushing Phillipa aside, and then he's dashing forward from behind, pulling one of the guard's short sword from its scabbard before he can reach for it. Sweeping his leg out, he catches the same man unawares with a swift and hard kick along the back of his knees, falling him with the advantage of surprise. He ducks the swing of a fist (not a sword, they're not supposed to use their weapons on their own brethren) from the second soldier, adjusting his grip on the hilt to drive the blunt end of it into the tender area of his stomach, curving and stepping around his side only to come back around and grab at the man's hood, pulling it down to hold him by the hair as Arthur drives a knee into his back. Before others can approach or the first man can regain his ground, he has the soldier on his knees, fingers tightly wound in his hair as he pulls the man's head back, blade resting against the curve of his throat, dragging him backward until he's by Dominick's side with his back protected by the lake.

“Arthur,” Eames says tentatively, eyes wide. Jamal looks on in the same measure of disbelief as Arthur grits his teeth.

“He didn't kill her.” There's no way. People don't kill the ones they love – he's not sure what Jamal and Eames are talking about, but Cobb doesn't have the _capacity_ to kill another human being. He looks toward Cobb, who's slowly rising to his feet, Mal cradled in his arms like a child or a bride. “There's been a mistake – it's early in the morning, we're just coming across this incorrectly.”

“Arthur, that is what we'll decide in trial, be reasonable-”

“What, so a few of your council can decide whatever the truth is? You're not even talking to _him_ , both of you, you keep speaking of him as if he isn't right _here_ -” His swordhand isn't steady, he eases off some of the pressure to the soldier's neck, grimacing when he's realised he's drawn a thin line of blood.

“It's okay.” The words seem to punch out of Dom, a thin, raw rasp as he straightens fully. “Arthur, stand down. Jamal... just allow me to prepare my wife's body with Yusuf. Guard me if you think it's necessary. Let me do this, and I'll go willingly.”

Arthur doesn't stand down – he _won't_ stand down, not yet. The tension in the air is thick, Jamal's face twisted in anger and disappointment as he looks like he might just force them both to surrender entirely. But Eames is saying something quiet in seaside tongue, and Jamal's demeanor changes, goes suddenly cold and stony. The anger is still there, spitting as he hisses something back – but he nods toward Cobb.

“Prepare to guide her soul into the afterlife and embrace your children, Cobb – for it may be the last time you touch them both. Arthur, if you do not release Nash immediately, I will have you arrested as well.”

It's the assent, not the threat, that has him letting go of Nash's hair, pushing the man forward who huffs and gasps with relief, rubbing at his neck. Arthur tosses the sword back at the feet of the unarmed guard, an exhaustion coming over him. He wants to turn to the lake and step into the cold waters and lie down at the bottom of it, he wants to go to Southbend to try his hand at the impending demonic threat that might wipe out all their previous efforts and wars of driving the horde further and further south in the first place, he wants to shout at Eames for seducing him when he should've been with the children during the night or closer to the lake to keep this from happening at all.

Phillipa's sobbing has died down. Arthur roughly shoulders past Eames who keeps trying to say something to him to go to her instead, picking her up in his arms as though she were as young as James again. James is likely still sleeping in the tent, and would be too young to understand what they're doing to his mother's body – but Phillipa's old enough to have seen the wrapping procedure a few times already, and should be present for it. Her thin arms wrap around his neck with the weight of that knowledge, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, and Cobb doesn't argue as Arthur follows him to the medicus' tent, each carrying their own treasures.

 

It's only family that are allowed to touch the deceased for the wrapping. Yusuf prepares each stretch of bandage used with foul-smelling herbs that will preserve the body until it's time to cremate her – Arthur has seen cremations gone delayed for months due to war or other complications, but bodies remained perfectly intact by changing and redressing the dressings every two weeks. They never look as good as they would during life, their skin shrivels and shrinks to grow tight across the bone, but it keeps them from outright rotting and liquefying in the body's attempt to return to the soil. He watches as Cobb and Phillipa undress her, wants to sob as he looks upon Phillipa drying and brushing out her mother's hair, but the tent is heavy with silence as they work.

Parents should always die before their children, Arthur thinks, but not like this. Never like this.

Phillipa doesn't ask her father what happened, doesn't even speak as they begin wrapping the soaked bandages around Mal's nude form, her arms crossed over her chest. It takes longer than it would for a large family to do – for the heavier portions of Mal's body, like her torso and her legs, Cobb has to hold her up as Phillipa is the one to bind her, small hands surprisingly steady and agonizingly careful. 

It takes plenty of time, but almost too quickly Mal's face is obscured by the wrappings, the entirety of her life neatly tucked away behind pristine bandages. All that's left is one remaining strip to secure and knot down, and Cobb pauses. Phillipa glances from her father to Arthur.

“Arthur,” Cobb murmurs, looking over his shoulder toward him. His hand waves him forward.

Throat threatening to close, Arthur approaches and together, the three of them, they knot the final strip, sealing and protecting Mal in a way they couldn't keep her safe from the waters of the lake.

Cobb's hand at his back, Phillipa's arms coming around his middle – Arthur's body is threatening to fly apart in all directions, and it's only these two things that keep him from it. Keenly aware of two guards waiting outside the tent for Cobb, Arthur trembles with both rage and a nervous, foreign energy – a sound catches at the back of his teeth, and Cobb brings him in against his side, allowing him to rest his head on his shoulder and shut his eyes. No tears come, but Arthur can't stop shaking.

Cobb keeps whispering “I'm sorry, I know, I'm sorry, I'll fix this,” into his ear, and Arthur doesn't understand why.

If he didn't do it, why is he apologizing? 

 

They can't hide in the tent all day, as much as Arthur thinks of imploring Cobb to. In the end, Cobb is too good of a man, stays by his promised word to give himself over to Jamal. He hugs Phillipa tightly, kissing her cheeks, and the three of them step out of the tent together as Yusuf pulls a veil over Mal's wrapped body to wait. The midwife has James in her arms, waiting for them – Cobb takes him from her only for a short while, to hold and indulge him in a patient ear with James' stories, oblivious to the morning's events. He doesn't understand the idea of his mother being gone; for all that he knows, she's still sick, staying inside the tent as all that she's ever done lately.

Cobb hands him back to the midwife after awhile, and urges Phillipa to go with her too. His daughter frowns but does as she's told, ignoring the woman's offered hand as she simply walks to stand at her side. The guards then move to flank Cobb, and though there are no shackles, Arthur thinks he hears the locking mechanism all the same.

 

They have no formal prison, nor place to hold him. In the end, they use the makeshift stables, cleaning out the stall that had belonged to Eames' stallion and locking Cobb within with some breakfast. Two soldiers always stand guard, and Arthur knows Cobb isn't going to talk to him about what happened when there are others around, so though he tries to stay to support him in any way that he can, eventually Cobb waves him off.

“We just have to await trial now, Arthur.”

“They can't punish you for an accident. I know her mind was-” It feels wrong, to refer to her in the past tense. “Was unsteady, so if you just explain what happened...” It's enough opportunity for Cobb to come forth with the truth, but the man only looks at him tiredly. “None of us understood the nature of the poison completely, on top of whatever chemicals Yusuf was force-feeding her. It doesn't matter whatever it was you were convicted of before, becoming a hunter is supposed to represent our new lives.”

The more and more he seems to be talking to himself, the more a guilty doubt begins to needle at him. What was it that Cobb was punished for, before Eames pulled whatever strings to have him brought here? None of them have ever talked of it, it seemed an agreement and consequent knowledge only held by Jamal, their previous leader, Eames, and Cobb himself.

“You're wearing the same clothes from last night,” Cobb points out, raising his brows. Arthur's jaw snaps audibly when he shuts it. “Go back to your room. There's nothing more you can do now; take care of yourself, they're not going to kill me. They're keeping me from hurting anyone else, though with your attack, maybe I'm not the one they have to worry about.” 

It's a mild, meaningless comment meant to deflect entirely – but it makes the soldiers shift uncomfortably, looking between the two of them. Despite the weight on his shoulders and concern over Cobb's change in demeanor and whatever gears are clicking in the man's mind, Arthur smiles faintly.

“Maybe not.”

 

Eames is waiting for him inside his tent when he steps inside. Arthur tries not to throw the first punch, instead looking at the other man blankly before stepping behind the small dressing screen to remove his clothes and wash quickly with a rag and bowl of water he keeps. He spends too much time and scrubs too hard at his back and lower where the grenadier had spent himself on him, occasionally glancing toward him as Eames takes a cursory look around, making sure he doesn't steal anything.

Though Arthur doesn't have many things to steal, other than his weapons and his small but cherished assortment of books.

“So bloody militant,” Eames mentions, and Arthur's not sure if it's affection or disdain, so doesn't comment. Once he's cleaned up, he pulls on a fresh set of clothing, stepping out from behind the screen.

“What do you want, Eames?”

“I think the situation stands more to what _you_ want.”

“What did you and Jamal say to each other that made him change his mind? He wasn't going to give Cobb burial rights.”

It looks like it pains Eames to answer, but it passes quickly as the man busies himself with one of Arthur's books – a short children's story he usually reads to James and Phillipa, though they'd grown bored of it after the first couple of times. “I told him I was sorry.”

“For what, bringing Cobb in?”

“No. No, not for that- never for that.”

“So, what?”

“Heavens, I don't know why I'm telling you this. I once had the rather unhappy accident of leading our main man on into believing we might have some future together. Any one person can have insurmountable power over someone falling in love with them.”

“Seriously?”

“You'd be surprised, what a man or woman will do when susceptible to their own heart.”

“Including catering to the idea of letting a criminal join our ranks?”

“Not only that, but agreeing to lend me men to break him out of the prison itself.”

“You're abhorrent.”

“It was a long time ago. And it brought you Cobb, didn't it? Then again, if he hadn't come into the picture, perhaps you might've ended up with Mallorie yourself-”

This time, he doesn't hold back the urge. His fist connects with Eames' jaw with a fluidity that surprises him – because Eames doesn't move out of the way. His head snaps to the side, hand coming up to cup the quickly forming knot. Arthur doesn't feel sorry for him, but he does take a step back.

It's a long silence before he speaks up again. “Why go through all of that to help one person? What agreement was Jamal talking about?”

Eames is still rubbing at his jaw, spitting out a small wad of blood from where he'd bitten into his cheek. “Jamal was obviously still resistant to the idea of bringing a true criminal in. Petty thieves, orphaned children forced to do as they must to survive – we love that sort, here, it makes good on the survival tactic. But Cobb, before he came, was charged with murder. A rather serious offense, at that, and though Jamal trusted my word, he warned us that if there was any other incidence of crime from him, he would be banished.”

“Cobb wouldn't- he doesn't kill humans, only demons.”

“Sometimes, there isn't much of a difference.”

“How do you know? Why do you- Ever since I've known either of you, I can't figure it out. You're not part of the family,” _Like I am,_ Arthur tries to add, but it sounds pitiful. “You two don't even seem to stand each other most of the time, but you're always defending him. And now you're saying he's a _murderer_ -”

“He's not a murderer. A killer, yes, as we all are – but not a murderer. Don't let Jamal's beliefs or the rekindled rumours around camp cloud what you know is true; Cobb's a good man, a good father, a good husband.”

“I know he is! That's why this doesn't make any sense. And _you..._ You.” It dawns on Arthur, then. Cobb has always been one of the few completely good men Arthur has known – what he gives to the community, his children, his sense of family is the strongest he's ever felt.

Eames, on the other hand, is anything but. There are worse people in the world, and Arthur would have both Cobb and Eames at his back during any war, but he knows the ruthless side to him well. The survival instinct that goes above and beyond – Eames is here because something happened to drive him away from his home, and Eames is here because it's more convenient to him than any other option.

“You're thinking something terribly mean,” he notes, sitting down on the edge of Arthur's bed. He sets the children's book aside. “But not entirely untrue. I was young once, you know. This was back when we birthed our children into hunters at thirteen, fourteen years of age rather than waiting until they're eighteen as we do now. Things were more desperate back then, before clans truly allied themselves with one another. 

“Jordan has always been a terrible place to live, I knew that much right away. Cobb grew up there, I was there with another hunter investigating a report of possession. But in the end I was attacked by a man, not a demon – this was before I learned that most men's desires are relatively simple. Cobb was a complete stranger, but he saved my life. He pulled that man away from me, roughed him up a bit – I was the one who chose to end his life. I took Cobb's knife from him and I thrust it into here.” Eames points at the soft spot just behind his chin, before the straight of his throat. “I killed him.

“We were found and Cobb told me to run, so I did. He was caught, he was blamed – and I let him serve sixteen years in prison for it. In the time Cobb lost his childhood, you were born, you lost your parents, and Jamal brought you to us. In the time it took you to train and become a hunter, he was rotting away in some prison because the people in that city don't have time for the truth – and I'm a coward. It wasn't until I was in my thirties that I finally went back for him.

“So, you see, I've been indebted to Cobb ever since. I owe him far more than sixteen years. I owe him an entire life.”

“You manipulated Jamal, the old chief, everyone here... to give Cobb something you took away from him in the first place.” Arthur stares at him in disbelief. “You're an indecisive asshole.”

Eames smiles, a sharp flash of teeth that Arthur has never liked – crooked and unwelcoming, he can never figure out when the gesture is genuine or patronizing. Once or twice, Eames has smiled at him and meant it, and the motion completely changed the set of his features, a glimpse that he could very well be a different kind of person, if he wanted to. Arthur guesses that some people just don't have a reason to change, nor someone to change _for._ “To be fair, I didn't force the old man. I only focused on Jamal – I knew he had his ear, it just took me some time to be able to act on it.”

“Sixteen years is a long time, Eames.”

He shrugs. Eames has the habit of not holding someone's gaze when speaking to someone, as though he doesn't have the time nor interest – but now, he at least gives him a sidelong glance. “I'm not trying to defend myself.”

“So why're you telling me all this?”

“You asked, I felt like throwing you a bone, so gnaw. Don't you ever wonder about so many things people keep from you, because you don't delve in?”

“Everyone's got their secrets. Isn't that the point of being a demon hunter? We're in the position of granting second chances, it doesn't matter who we are as people.”

“Yes, I suppose, if you've mind on being nothing but a tool. But things are changing, Arthur, and I need you to be able to keep up.”

Arthur kicks at the latch on his trunk, opening the lid to reveal his weapons. He's not sure what he's going to do with them, but he's always felt better when armed – though he doesn't reach for them just yet, fingers only trailing the curve of his bow. “Right now, Cobb and the kids are my top priority.”

“Admirable, but you're not going to be able to keep both.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It's a fact of life. The past I gave Cobb is heavily weighing against whatever future he may have, now. He achieved what he desired – a wife, children, but sometimes things move out of our control. I'm not going to let Jamal snuff him out when I've worked so hard to give him what he deserves.”

“Is this about your guilt, or Cobb?”

Eames doesn't even hesitate; it's not surprising, because Arthur's never known him to have shame. “Both. I've never said I was selfless. You ought to appreciate the fact that I'm feeling guilt in the first place – I've never taken responsibility for someone else's fate. And you and Cobb weren't the only men who cared for Mallorie despite what you two might think, though I might place my chips closer to the _terrified_ end of the spectrum. Now, those children need their father; look at how maladjusted us orphans end up being.” He smiles again, but this time it's only a small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“You really think Jamal is going to execute him?”

“It's one of two outcomes. We've not had a case of murder within the camp for a very long time – before you or I were even a part of the brotherhood, actually. But a murderer is no better than a demon in its most literal form. In the old days, I've been told we give them three days of food and water – and then we hunt them down.”

“They wouldn't- that's disgusting.”

“Jamal isn't so cruel, no. A quick death if proven guilty, but even if innocent, Cobb's station here won't be the same.”

“He didn't kill her. I don't know what happened, but he didn't kill her.”

“Did you ask him?”

“How the Hell could I? He'd think I doubted him.”

“Then neither of us truly know, and it doesn't matter – we have our beliefs, and they have the beliefs fed to them. Once again, only Cobb will hold the truth, but this time I'll not wait sixteen years to do something about it.” Eames is pushing up from the cot, coming to stand by him as Arthur looks over his personal armory.

“You've got a plan.”

Eames catches his eye again, and when he speaks, his voice lowers so much that even he has to strain to hear it, as close as they are.

“Jamal hasn't made the announcement yet, but a messenger from Cullport arrived. While you tended to Cobb, I trailed Jamal back to his tent to argue with him, and stole a read of it. They've crossed Southbend. A few possession spirits manage to seal contracts out of those fearing a plague from the build of corpses turning up downstream, and in return, they forded the river where it's slowest, closest to the town. Within the next month, the horde could be this far north. Jamal will likely split the able men and women from the children and uninitiated, and take the army south before they drain the river entirely, and send the rest of camp back up toward the mountains. In the confusion, you can take Cobb elsewhere.” 

Arthur's blood feels cold, pumping through his heart. He licks his lips, sight cast downward to the bow he's not used against anything more than practice targets yet. Another war appeals to a darker side of him, but it's no longer _his_ war. Let Jamal and the others take care of the threat against humanity – Arthur only has the capacity to look after a few, and he's already lost one and is close to losing another. “And the kids.”

“Well, that would depend on whether or not you think it's greater punishment for children to be without their father, or to be forced to split entirely from the stability they know with the clan.”

“You said it yourself, they need their father.”

Eames hums, noncommittal. 

“This doesn't redeem you for what you did to him,” he adds quietly. Their shoulders brush as Eames shifts his weight in his boots. They look to one another, the bruise developing on his jaw complementary to the rawness Arthur feels on his knuckles. Almost, he reaches out to press the pad of his thumb into it, wants to make it hurt the same way there's a throbbing in his mind and the back of his eyes, but in the end decides not to.

“I don't tell myself otherwise. I don't believe in trying to go back and fix a mistake – but it doesn't mean I have to keep making the same one.”

“When's he planning to make the call?”

“If I have to guess...” In the near distance, he can hear the chiming bells of a public council hearing being announced. “Now.” Eames quirks his brows at him, then turns, heading toward the flaps of his tent.

“How do you do it?” Arthur might regret the words as soon as he says them, but he can't take them back. The other man pauses, though, looking back toward him curiously. “How do you manage to get all of these- _pieces_ in order. Just because you want something... When you want something.” Cobb. The old chief. Jamal. Hell, maybe even himself – all Eames had to do was look at him, decided he wanted him for a night, and Arthur gave himself over. He thought he'd needed the drink but he knows that was just an excuse, a sidelined invitation. “You always get what you want.”

He turns away again. “Not always. Your desires are always so narrow, Arthur. Survive this battle. Get through this night. Find a cure for Mallorie. When life is full of small defeats, you'll always be miserable. Try to remember what it is you wanted for yourself when you were young, before you signed yourself over to an idea. With legions of demons breathing fire down your neck, why do you want to stay alive? Think broadly.”

Mal. Cobb. The kids. The idea of a family, of love. Eames is leaving, and he's passed by several tents before Arthur sticks his head out and shouts after him.

“Why do you?”

Eames turns his body as he shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers, walking backwards only long enough to reply: “Keeps me human!”

Arthur frowns.

Of course the quickest response would be the only one borderline _too literal._

 

Arthur doesn't attend the council's address. He knows what's coming, and he can hear it from the cool darkness of his tent as he laces into his hunting clothes. The council informs the entirety of the clan of what's to come – the crossing of Southbend river, the reinstatement of all able-bodied regiments to their positions. It's voluntary; hunting has always been voluntary, and they've never needed a draft to add more to their ranks. Sounds from the camp seem to explode all at once after the meeting is adjourned – everything will be packed up and broken down, loaded onto either the caravan going north or south. They've always move quickly, even during times of peace; by nightfall, the final counts are being made.

Securing the last of his small personal affairs with Phillipa, who looks like she might guard his books with her life, Arthur turns to survey the remains of the encampment. The large ceremonial pit is ablaze with the last fire it may see this season, washing a warm glow over the surrounding area – but the starkness of all the tents being disassembled and packed away drives the reality of Arthur's plan home.

They're going to say goodbye to all of this.

All hunters, regardless of which direction they take, whether south with the army or north to accompany the caravan to safety in the mountains, are dressed for war. Cobb's trial and Mal's cremation will have to wait, something that serves to Arthur's advantage. Funerals, settling someone into a final resting place, is something too important in the community to rush or haphazard. Mal will be in Yusuf's wagon, Phillipa and James to accompany the body. All he has to do is get Cobb and usurp the cart from out of Yusuf's hands. The group of hunters going north with the caravan won't have enough extra manpower to bother to go after them, and he's betting that effectively banishing themselves will take enough of the work out of waiting for a trial in Jamal's absence that they won't bother to give chase. 

The heaviness of all his weapons on his person comes as a comfort, and maybe there's some small part of him that regrets not going south with the majority of them. Things have changed, though – he finds himself angry how quickly people seem to be moving on while Cobb and the kids just lost their whole world. A more reserved, logical subset of his mind knows that death is nothing new, even if the way she'd gone isn't exactly the quickness of a mistake in battle; every other part of him screams about the lack of fairness in it. She was getting better, so what happened? Was it the illness, or whatever Yusuf was making her drink? Why wasn't the council focusing on _that_ , instead of the way a man clutches his wife when he's lost her?

Thoughts turned inward, Arthur looks without seeing what's around him – but the surprise of noticing Eames in his full grenadier gear among the men going south pulls him out of it. They lock eyes before Eames tips his chin toward closer to the fire, out of the way.

He's holding out a bag for him when Arthur joins him.

“I thought you were coming with us.” He takes the sack, unknotting the tie to take a glance inside. Two bombs, a few smaller pouches, and... Yusuf's medicus cloak? Questioningly, he looks back up at him. The fire seems to lick at its own reflection off of Eames' armour – the same material used in Cobb's shield, the heavy plates protect grenadiers from the heat of their own tools.

Eames' eyes crinkle at the corners. “That's always been the danger, hasn't it? You thinking for yourself. You're dangerous enough as a weapon, imagine when you add free will to the mixture.”

Brow furrowing, Arthur looks down at the contents of the bag again.

“I sold your horse to Yusuf.” 

Arthur wishes the sound was audible, he can _hear_ things clicking into place. “He's well on his way to the coast by now.”

“In turn, he's left you to pick through much of his things. You'll find books of instructions on how to prepare Mal's dressings, and Cobb's _somnacin_. He might need it now more than before.”

Nightmares – isn't it natural to dream of someone you love? “Might.”

“It's the best I could do for you.”

Arthur reaches down into the bag, running his fingers over the bauble of the grenade. He's been around them long enough to know that each type of grenade or frag is denoted based on its carvings – this is sleeping gas. “Why're you going south with them?”

“What was I going to do, after sneaking away with you lot? Become a nomadic vagrant? I'm paid handsomely in free living expenses to blow up soldiers of the damned.” A flash of Eames' teeth; Arthur ignores it.

“Seems to go against the staying alive part of your goals.”

“You think we'll fail?” When Arthur remains quiet, busying his hands with reknotting the bag, Eames shrugs. “Perhaps. We all have to die some time – that keeps us just as human. Besides that, have you figured out what you wanted yet?”

Keep Cobb and the kids safe. Cremate Mal. Eames tells him not to think in such narrow accomplishments, but Arthur has to prioritize – Cobb's family first and then, maybe one day, his own.

Eames seems to catch on quickly enough. Pulling up his shroud and tucking it around the lower portion of his face, his words come out slightly muffled. “You'll have to learn to dream a bit bigger than that, darling.”

“It's still what I want to do. Your help doesn't change that.”

“I should hope not.”

“So I'm guessing this is goodbye.”

“Well, it'd certainly defeat the purpose if we came back, glorious and high off bloodshed, to find Cobb so patiently awaiting his judgment, wouldn't it?”

Eames offers him his hand. Arthur ignores it, stepping forward and pressing his mouth roughly against Eames', still obscured by the shroud. He does it because – damn it – he _wants_ to, and he'd never gotten a chance to before, and Eames is leaving and likely going to die so there's little opportunity for him to laugh at him for it afterward. The other man's lips are covered by the cloth, but Arthur can feel them through it all the same – softer for the fabric, but warm and full and slightly parted from surprise. Eames exhales and Arthur feels it puff against his own mouth. He likes that. He wants this.

It's too late.

Arthur turns heel and walks in a tightly measured gait, headed to where he knows they're still holding Cobb in the stables. Eames calls after him, but he doesn't stop.

By the time he lets himself glance over his shoulder to look, he's no longer there.


End file.
